I've been really dehydrated the last month or two (exhaustive regimens of not writing can do that to you), so I've been drinking a lot of Kool-Aid. It's something I like, is cheap, and easy to make, so I've bought a couple of those big containers of the powder in preparation of the ghastly photo op I'm going to get my nephew in. I'm calling it "Baby Marque de Sade" for now.
So, my cousin was over yesterday, and I asked him if he wanted some. He told me that he had just gotten over despising the stuff. According to him, my grandmother made awful Kool-Aid and hated it until a roommate taught him you could put sugar in it.
Blasphemy! Not only was my grandmother a saintly woman, but Kool-Aid wouldn't have the same kick if you left out the salt.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
May 13th, 2010
I'm babysitting my sister's kid again and he's basically waging war between the turtles and my Spider-man toys right now a few feet away. A second ago, I sneezed and he looked over and said, "You farted. Yucky." As two-year-olds are wont to do, I suppose.
So, I stopped what I was doing and typed this.
So, I stopped what I was doing and typed this.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Follow-up
Okay, as I was saying, I got this story out of mothballs, needing something to work on pronto.
I started it in August of 2009, inspired by an episode of our podcast called "Love Bites." I realized we'd never done a vampire story on the show, so I thought I'd try and write a really scary one, with none of that romance or sparklies in it.
I thought I'd challenge myself and write the story in first person, from the point of view of a seventeen year old girl. But in typing that, I realize that it sounds like I am writing a "Twilight" type ripoff. No, no, no. It's much more of a WHEN A STRANGER CALLS ripoff.
I had written a synopsis of the story (something I absolutely must do when I get the idea, otherwise it gets pushed out of my faulty brain and I not only forget where the story was going, but--no lie--forget I ever had the idea in the first place), and had even written the final sentence.*
I had then started the story from the beginning, dated August 4th, in the little notebook my Uncle John gave me before he stole my car.** I wrote for five pages, ending on--
"Why don't you go back down to your room, Crissy?"
"Alright," she said, but didn't go.
And then, it just stops.
The next page picks up in the middle of another story, continues two pages, and then stops as well. After that, we get my October Scary Story (also beginning in the middle and stopping before the end), and page after page of works-in-progress. Sad, really.
But on with the countdown. So, this untitled vampire story had lay fallow for nine months, and having finished another story this week, I thought I'd pick this one up and take a crack at it. And what I found sort of bummed me out.
You see, I'd written this story in 2009 to take place in some unspecified future (probably 2011), and it was already dated. Anticipating THE PRINCESS & THE FROG would be a huge hit, I'd referenced a collection of dolls from the then-forthcoming film. And a song which was new at the time being "that old song by so-and-so." In re-reading it, I wondered if I should change the reference to TWISTED/RUPUNZEL and just make up a band name.
When I finished contemplating that, a week had passed.
Despite this setback, I was amazed to discover the story had been three-fourths finished before I abandoned it last year. I had written the ending already, and much of what led to it. It really only took minutes to fill in the blanks, and even though I think it's a particularly weak piece, I have yet another finished work this month.
That was the good news. The bad news was that the clothes I had been wearing during that week-long fugue were not salvageable.
Rish "The Smelly One" Outfield
*The days ahead were going to be hard enough without . . . without that awful thing that seemed to be the truth.
**I'm sorry, that's unfair. He simply took the car without paying for it. And I didn't want that car anymore anyway.
I started it in August of 2009, inspired by an episode of our podcast called "Love Bites." I realized we'd never done a vampire story on the show, so I thought I'd try and write a really scary one, with none of that romance or sparklies in it.
I thought I'd challenge myself and write the story in first person, from the point of view of a seventeen year old girl. But in typing that, I realize that it sounds like I am writing a "Twilight" type ripoff. No, no, no. It's much more of a WHEN A STRANGER CALLS ripoff.
I had written a synopsis of the story (something I absolutely must do when I get the idea, otherwise it gets pushed out of my faulty brain and I not only forget where the story was going, but--no lie--forget I ever had the idea in the first place), and had even written the final sentence.*
I had then started the story from the beginning, dated August 4th, in the little notebook my Uncle John gave me before he stole my car.** I wrote for five pages, ending on--
"Why don't you go back down to your room, Crissy?"
"Alright," she said, but didn't go.
And then, it just stops.
The next page picks up in the middle of another story, continues two pages, and then stops as well. After that, we get my October Scary Story (also beginning in the middle and stopping before the end), and page after page of works-in-progress. Sad, really.
But on with the countdown. So, this untitled vampire story had lay fallow for nine months, and having finished another story this week, I thought I'd pick this one up and take a crack at it. And what I found sort of bummed me out.
You see, I'd written this story in 2009 to take place in some unspecified future (probably 2011), and it was already dated. Anticipating THE PRINCESS & THE FROG would be a huge hit, I'd referenced a collection of dolls from the then-forthcoming film. And a song which was new at the time being "that old song by so-and-so." In re-reading it, I wondered if I should change the reference to TWISTED/RUPUNZEL and just make up a band name.
When I finished contemplating that, a week had passed.
Despite this setback, I was amazed to discover the story had been three-fourths finished before I abandoned it last year. I had written the ending already, and much of what led to it. It really only took minutes to fill in the blanks, and even though I think it's a particularly weak piece, I have yet another finished work this month.
That was the good news. The bad news was that the clothes I had been wearing during that week-long fugue were not salvageable.
Rish "The Smelly One" Outfield
*The days ahead were going to be hard enough without . . . without that awful thing that seemed to be the truth.
**I'm sorry, that's unfair. He simply took the car without paying for it. And I didn't want that car anymore anyway.
another darn writing post
My buddy Bigglesby has wanted to be a professional writer for, I don't know, let's say ten years now. Recently, he's been reading some words of advice and/or inspiration from a professional novelist, and it has really lit a fire under his rectum. The last couple of times we've been together, he's repeated some of the things he's learned, and has been trying to implement them into his writing (and his attitude about writing). He even printed out a big stack of this guy's How-To sessions to give to me to read, to encourage me to implement them as well.
That's cool, but I'm a little too lazy/cowardly to take any advice nowadays.
Big has, more or less, two or three hours of free time each day. He ends up writing, on a good week, about fifteen minutes a day. That's pretty embarrassing, right? But what's more embarrassing is that I have, more or less, six to nine hours of free time a day. And I write, on a good week, around forty minutes a day.
Okay, that's on a reaaally good week.
At the beginning of this month, I challenged myself to write a story a day for a week and publish them on my blog. I surprised myself by actually succeeding (though, truth be told, it took me about ten days to get eight stories written, the longest of which I didn't put on my blog), but according to Big's writer friend, I should be doing that sort of thing all the time, and sending out my stories to contests, editors, and publishers all the time, without agonizing over whether the work could be better or needs polishing.
They guy has a lot of really interesting things to say like that, things that make me wonder if it's really that easy to sell stories. Things that make me wonder if I can change my ways and be a success. Things that make me wonder if I have a faulty brain.
Hmmm. I'm going to quit typing this and work on a story from last August now.
Rish "The Finisher" Outfi--
That's cool, but I'm a little too lazy/cowardly to take any advice nowadays.
Big has, more or less, two or three hours of free time each day. He ends up writing, on a good week, about fifteen minutes a day. That's pretty embarrassing, right? But what's more embarrassing is that I have, more or less, six to nine hours of free time a day. And I write, on a good week, around forty minutes a day.
Okay, that's on a reaaally good week.
At the beginning of this month, I challenged myself to write a story a day for a week and publish them on my blog. I surprised myself by actually succeeding (though, truth be told, it took me about ten days to get eight stories written, the longest of which I didn't put on my blog), but according to Big's writer friend, I should be doing that sort of thing all the time, and sending out my stories to contests, editors, and publishers all the time, without agonizing over whether the work could be better or needs polishing.
They guy has a lot of really interesting things to say like that, things that make me wonder if it's really that easy to sell stories. Things that make me wonder if I can change my ways and be a success. Things that make me wonder if I have a faulty brain.
Hmmm. I'm going to quit typing this and work on a story from last August now.
Rish "The Finisher" Outfi--
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Saturday, May 08, 2010
So, IRON MAN 2 happened...
What does it say that I enjoyed the last thirty seconds (after the movie had ended) more than the movie itself?
Friday, May 07, 2010
Too Many Cooks?
I had a lengthy meeting yesterday regarding my latest professional writing gig, and I found there was a bit of a disagreement between me and the producer over what direction to take the story. It wasn't major, but he had a couple of conflicting ideas about the villain and the big confrontation I had envisioned at the end. We're only in story mode right now (rather than script mode or pre-production), so the time to make changes, the big kind, is now.
Collaboration has always been a difficult concept for me, and I suppose that all partnerships are going to come into conflict from time to time. But I'm not good with conflict. Either I tend to shrink back and just say "forget it," or I become really rigid and reactionary (much more so than the argument deserves). In the producer's defense, he did listen to my ideas before overruling them, and complimented the aspects that he liked. But I couldn't get over the thought that this story would be a lot better if I didn't have another cook throwing in or taking out ingredients, or fiddling with the recipe before the oven's turned on.
Whether I'm a talented writer or not, I think I have a very good grasp on story structure, and can see what works and doesn't work in the stories that I read and watch. For pretty much my adult life, I imagined that everybody was like that, that people just naturally, innately understand how stories work and appreciate good talespinning when they see it, but I've recently discovered that to be untrue. Some people plain don't have it or don't appreciate it. I guess it's something you have to practice, just like anything else, and think about. And who wants to think when you can just hit the Snooze button on your brain?
I thought my ideas were pretty good, and that the ones that were overruled were not replaced by superior ones. And as I said before, my inclination is to think that I could create a much better story if left to my own devices and imagination, rather than have to jump through (write through) hoops and second-guess myself. But perhaps that's just arrogance on my part. Isn't the point of collaboration that each person has a unique perspective, thinking of things the other hasn't, drawing on experiences that shade things differently, and that you end up creating something together that you wouldn't have managed on your own?
I guess so, but the whole too many cooks ruin the stew saying has to come from somewhere. We've all seen those big studio movies where we realize that the script was written by committee, and anything unique or clever or atypically interesting has been removed and replaced by cliche and blandness and the noun that means playing-it-safe. And while my cousin Ryan will certainly buy the DVD of such a movie, I often bewail the suspicion that a really good movie was hiding in that mediocre one, but there were too many voices shouting to "improve" it for that movie to show its furry little head.
Something I proposed at our meeting inspired the film's producer to say that he'd seen that in a thousand other movies. I didn't really think about what he meant by that except to wonder if there's anything I've seen in a full thousand movies, except for:
1) Kissing,
2) Punching,
3) Slow-motion,
4) A cat jumping out with a loud "mreeeow!" sound,
5) People fighting over a gun and it goes off,
6) Somebody sitting up in bed after a bad dream, and
7) A black guy who makes wisecracks all the time.
A thousand is a big number.
Anyway, I don't know if I'm wrong or he was wrong, or we both share some of the wrongness (and by the same token, rightness). This ends up being sort of a rhetorical blog post. I'm not sure there is an actual answer, but it's possible I'm missing something or need to rack up a little more experience before I can find the answer on my own. Damn.
Rish Longfellow Outfield
Collaboration has always been a difficult concept for me, and I suppose that all partnerships are going to come into conflict from time to time. But I'm not good with conflict. Either I tend to shrink back and just say "forget it," or I become really rigid and reactionary (much more so than the argument deserves). In the producer's defense, he did listen to my ideas before overruling them, and complimented the aspects that he liked. But I couldn't get over the thought that this story would be a lot better if I didn't have another cook throwing in or taking out ingredients, or fiddling with the recipe before the oven's turned on.
Whether I'm a talented writer or not, I think I have a very good grasp on story structure, and can see what works and doesn't work in the stories that I read and watch. For pretty much my adult life, I imagined that everybody was like that, that people just naturally, innately understand how stories work and appreciate good talespinning when they see it, but I've recently discovered that to be untrue. Some people plain don't have it or don't appreciate it. I guess it's something you have to practice, just like anything else, and think about. And who wants to think when you can just hit the Snooze button on your brain?
I thought my ideas were pretty good, and that the ones that were overruled were not replaced by superior ones. And as I said before, my inclination is to think that I could create a much better story if left to my own devices and imagination, rather than have to jump through (write through) hoops and second-guess myself. But perhaps that's just arrogance on my part. Isn't the point of collaboration that each person has a unique perspective, thinking of things the other hasn't, drawing on experiences that shade things differently, and that you end up creating something together that you wouldn't have managed on your own?
I guess so, but the whole too many cooks ruin the stew saying has to come from somewhere. We've all seen those big studio movies where we realize that the script was written by committee, and anything unique or clever or atypically interesting has been removed and replaced by cliche and blandness and the noun that means playing-it-safe. And while my cousin Ryan will certainly buy the DVD of such a movie, I often bewail the suspicion that a really good movie was hiding in that mediocre one, but there were too many voices shouting to "improve" it for that movie to show its furry little head.
Something I proposed at our meeting inspired the film's producer to say that he'd seen that in a thousand other movies. I didn't really think about what he meant by that except to wonder if there's anything I've seen in a full thousand movies, except for:
1) Kissing,
2) Punching,
3) Slow-motion,
4) A cat jumping out with a loud "mreeeow!" sound,
5) People fighting over a gun and it goes off,
6) Somebody sitting up in bed after a bad dream, and
7) A black guy who makes wisecracks all the time.
A thousand is a big number.
Anyway, I don't know if I'm wrong or he was wrong, or we both share some of the wrongness (and by the same token, rightness). This ends up being sort of a rhetorical blog post. I'm not sure there is an actual answer, but it's possible I'm missing something or need to rack up a little more experience before I can find the answer on my own. Damn.
Rish Longfellow Outfield
Thursday, May 06, 2010
PodCastle story
I'm reading the current PodCastle miniature story, "Mario's Three Lives" by Matt Bell. It's an amusing little story, despite the title ruining any subtlety the text may have intended. We didn't do any sound effects or music, so you can hear a lot of cheap microphone on the recording, which is a bummer, but ah well.
PodCastle is the Fantasy-centric podcast spinoff of EscapePod, which was the first podcast I ever listened to, and I shan't badmouth it here. There are three EscapePod-related podcasts, and I have gotten to read stories on two of them (the other being PseudoPod, the Horror version). Truth be told, my fiction is never going to make it on those highly public and acclaimed shows, but it's nice to be able to narrate a story on them.
The tale itself is very short, so check it out if you get eight minutes free.
Rish
PodCastle is the Fantasy-centric podcast spinoff of EscapePod, which was the first podcast I ever listened to, and I shan't badmouth it here. There are three EscapePod-related podcasts, and I have gotten to read stories on two of them (the other being PseudoPod, the Horror version). Truth be told, my fiction is never going to make it on those highly public and acclaimed shows, but it's nice to be able to narrate a story on them.
The tale itself is very short, so check it out if you get eight minutes free.
Rish
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Writing Resolution 7
Okay, come up with something, something short, something easy. You can do it.
ALL NIGHT GAS
I was almost out of gas, and wasn't going to make it to Vegas. I had gambled on a gas station in Jean, Nevada being open twenty-four hours, or at least to have pumps that were. The gamble paid off (I was in the right state for it), as I pulled into a closed Chevron, with a lit-up sign reading "All Night Gas" flickering above the overinflated prices. I stopped and got out, beginning the fill-up process. I stretched and felt my back pop.
I heard a scuffling sound and turned. Unfortunately for me, I was not alone. There were also several young Hip-Hop-loving teenagers at the station, just waiting for someone to come along. Someone weak and/or alone. Someone like me.
"Give me your money, dork," one of them said, flashing a knife. It wasn't a big knife, but the way he held it reminded me of whittling Southerners. Knives are scary. "And give I-Sore your car keys."
Another teen stepped forward, dressed like an Eighties breakdancer, but with no neon colors. There were five or six young men converging now. The group had surrounded my car, all of them looking angry, some of them looking hungry.
Their spokesman smiled big, revealing teeth of silver and gold. "The rest of you goes to T-Bagg."
I glanced over to the one he was referring to, a frighteningly-ugly man/boy with a fishnet shirt on, and was surprised to see someone standing atop the big Chevron sign behind him. It was more of a big black shape than a discernible person, and before I could discern more, a bony fist introduced itself sharply to my face. I staggered back, and an elbow or knee pounded into my stomach, doubling me over. I was kicked again, and everything went spotty and snow-filled, even though I was in the middle of the desert.
I heard a whooshing sound, and the kid who had kicked me dropped what he'd been holding. It hit the cement with a metallic clank. A tire iron. Two of the young punks squealed then, and one shouted "Mira!" (which my high school Spanish told me meant "Look"). The man standing on the Chevron sign was now standing among us, grabbing the gang and throwing them here and there. He was dressed all in black, wore a cape, and I was dumb-founded to realize that it was Batman.
After all, Jean, Nevada is a long way from Gotham City.
Even more importantly, Batman is a fictional comic book character created by Bill Finger in 1939.
Nevertheless, here he was, punching, slamming, and drop-kicking eight or nine wiry teenagers. I heard footsteps beside me and turned my head, expecting to see Robin. Instead, it was the big, fishnets-wearing punk their leader had called T-Bagg. He had decided to use my face as a soccer ball. I tried to grab the fallen tire iron, but grabbed something small and sharp instead. Immediately, a steel-toed boot met my forehead and all the pain went away. Everything went away for a little while.
***
"...ere me, sir?" a woman's voice said from far above me. I opened my eyes, and found a woman policeman kneeling in front of me, looking concerned and smelling of Juicy Fruit. The pain returned, and I was almost overwhelmed by it.
"I said, can you hear me?" she repeated.
"Yeah," I muttered. Holy shit, there was something solid and small in my mouth. I knew it was a tooth without looking at it. I tried to sit up, and something in my stomach stung and told me to lay still.
"You're going to be alright, sir," the policewoman said. Beyond her, another cop was shining a flashlight. He was an older guy, a black guy, and seemed to be looking for evidence or clues.
"Ambulance is on its way," that cop said, either to me or his partner.
I turned my head. I was still on the ground at the gas station, and I was alone. Amazingly, my car was a few feet away, the gas nozzle still in my tank. There was broken glass at my feet, and a few dark stains that could have been blood here and there. Of course, they might have been oil drippings too.
"Do you remember what happened?" the black cop asked, casting a bit of light my way. It hurt my eyes and he pointed it elsewhere.
"We believe you were attacked," the woman added.
"I . . ." I did remember, actually. I remembered everything, despite how much my head ached. And that made me wonder if I remembered it right. "Did you see him? Did you see Batman?"
"Batman?" both cops repeated at the same time. It was kind of cute, actually, in retrospect.
"Movie? The middle one was better," the male cop said.
"No, Batman was here. Tonight. He saved me." As I said it, I was aware of two things. The first was that the broken tooth in my mouth had a sharp edge that was digging into my tongue. The other was that I sounded absolutely crazy, and a lot like a little kid describing a dream.
I spit the broken tooth out into my hand. It took two tries and I apologized to the policewoman.
For a moment, I wondered if a doctor could sew the tooth back on, then I realized how insane that thought was, and wondered if I might have some kind of brain damage.
"Near as we can tell, sir," the policewoman said quietly, "You got mugged or attacked within the last two hours. It's possible someone hit you with their car."
"No," I said. "It was a bunch of kids. Muscular, mean ones. I mean, like teenagers, not, like, little kids."
"Your wallet's still here," the man said, holding it up for me to see it. "Still got twenty-seven dollars in it."
I reached out to take it, but felt that sharp pain in my stomach again. The sound I made was embarrassingly girlish.
"Lie still, sir," the policewoman said. "You may have broken ribs."
"You're good at your job," I said, for no reason. Then, because I wanted them to understand I hadn't lost my mind: "It might not have been Batman, you know."
"Oh. You think?" the black cop said. It hurt my feelings, but it would have been funny to anybody else.
"No. I mean, it was a guy dressed as Batman. I mean."
"And he saved you. Killed the bad guys?"
Actually, I didn't think Batman killed people. But I couldn't say that to this guy. If I did, he'd ask me where the bodies went. And ask me which Batman it was, the Adam West one or the Christian Bale version. "I don't know. I don't remember."
"Well, there wasn't anybody else here when we got here. No bodies. Although I did find a filling over here." The black cop smiled good-naturedly. "You got a gold tooth?"
Somewhere to the north, I could hear a siren. I couldn't remember if ambulances have different sirens than police cars at the time. I was confused and my head was filled with a combination of cotton and applesauce. Homestyle applesauce. With the chunks.
"About Batman . . ." I started to say.
The policewoman put her hand on my shoulder, and I shut my mouth. "Just relax. Lie still and don't strain yourself. It'll be alright."
"But--"
"Sometimes head trauma can cause funny tricks with the mind. One time this guy hit me with a beer bottle and I forgot my middle name for more than an hour."
"It's Consuelo," the black cop added. "In case you forget again."
"Thanks, Albert," she said. The siren was getting closer. I heard a crackling from the woman's walkie-talkie and a voice said something I couldn't understand, though I think I made out "three minutes" in there. She looked down on me again. She wasn't particularly attractive, but I was feeling all affectionate anyway. Grateful. Childlike. "You've had a bad experience and an injury, but I think you're gonna be alright. We'll get you to a hospital, patch you up, and you'll forget all about Batman."
"Especially the George Clooney one," the black cop said. "Whoo!"
"You think I imagined him?" I said, afraid to keep talking in case I called the policewoman 'Mom.'
"Probably," she said. "Doesn't matter. What's important is that you're going to be okay, sir." So, we were back to the sir again. Alright.
She was right. I had been out of my mind, seeing things that my stressed brain wanted to see. Silly, childish things that I had once believed in. There's no such thing as superheroes, and I'd learned that decades ago. There was no such thing as a lot of things. Sad, really. No Batmen, no straight politicians, no business that couldn't go under, no love that lasts forever. Really sad.
I lay there as still as I could, feeling little bunches of pain in my mouth, my stomach, my knee, and my head. The siren was very close now, and I suddenly had to go to the bathroom. Bad. I was lucky I hadn't already gone in my pants.
And maybe I had. Even more embarrassment. I moved my right hand to check my crotch, and felt something hard and metal beneath it. I grasped the object and brought it up to my face to get a look at it. It was a Batarang.
"Heh," I said.
The End
ALL NIGHT GAS
I was almost out of gas, and wasn't going to make it to Vegas. I had gambled on a gas station in Jean, Nevada being open twenty-four hours, or at least to have pumps that were. The gamble paid off (I was in the right state for it), as I pulled into a closed Chevron, with a lit-up sign reading "All Night Gas" flickering above the overinflated prices. I stopped and got out, beginning the fill-up process. I stretched and felt my back pop.
I heard a scuffling sound and turned. Unfortunately for me, I was not alone. There were also several young Hip-Hop-loving teenagers at the station, just waiting for someone to come along. Someone weak and/or alone. Someone like me.
"Give me your money, dork," one of them said, flashing a knife. It wasn't a big knife, but the way he held it reminded me of whittling Southerners. Knives are scary. "And give I-Sore your car keys."
Another teen stepped forward, dressed like an Eighties breakdancer, but with no neon colors. There were five or six young men converging now. The group had surrounded my car, all of them looking angry, some of them looking hungry.
Their spokesman smiled big, revealing teeth of silver and gold. "The rest of you goes to T-Bagg."
I glanced over to the one he was referring to, a frighteningly-ugly man/boy with a fishnet shirt on, and was surprised to see someone standing atop the big Chevron sign behind him. It was more of a big black shape than a discernible person, and before I could discern more, a bony fist introduced itself sharply to my face. I staggered back, and an elbow or knee pounded into my stomach, doubling me over. I was kicked again, and everything went spotty and snow-filled, even though I was in the middle of the desert.
I heard a whooshing sound, and the kid who had kicked me dropped what he'd been holding. It hit the cement with a metallic clank. A tire iron. Two of the young punks squealed then, and one shouted "Mira!" (which my high school Spanish told me meant "Look"). The man standing on the Chevron sign was now standing among us, grabbing the gang and throwing them here and there. He was dressed all in black, wore a cape, and I was dumb-founded to realize that it was Batman.
After all, Jean, Nevada is a long way from Gotham City.
Even more importantly, Batman is a fictional comic book character created by Bill Finger in 1939.
Nevertheless, here he was, punching, slamming, and drop-kicking eight or nine wiry teenagers. I heard footsteps beside me and turned my head, expecting to see Robin. Instead, it was the big, fishnets-wearing punk their leader had called T-Bagg. He had decided to use my face as a soccer ball. I tried to grab the fallen tire iron, but grabbed something small and sharp instead. Immediately, a steel-toed boot met my forehead and all the pain went away. Everything went away for a little while.
***
"...ere me, sir?" a woman's voice said from far above me. I opened my eyes, and found a woman policeman kneeling in front of me, looking concerned and smelling of Juicy Fruit. The pain returned, and I was almost overwhelmed by it.
"I said, can you hear me?" she repeated.
"Yeah," I muttered. Holy shit, there was something solid and small in my mouth. I knew it was a tooth without looking at it. I tried to sit up, and something in my stomach stung and told me to lay still.
"You're going to be alright, sir," the policewoman said. Beyond her, another cop was shining a flashlight. He was an older guy, a black guy, and seemed to be looking for evidence or clues.
"Ambulance is on its way," that cop said, either to me or his partner.
I turned my head. I was still on the ground at the gas station, and I was alone. Amazingly, my car was a few feet away, the gas nozzle still in my tank. There was broken glass at my feet, and a few dark stains that could have been blood here and there. Of course, they might have been oil drippings too.
"Do you remember what happened?" the black cop asked, casting a bit of light my way. It hurt my eyes and he pointed it elsewhere.
"We believe you were attacked," the woman added.
"I . . ." I did remember, actually. I remembered everything, despite how much my head ached. And that made me wonder if I remembered it right. "Did you see him? Did you see Batman?"
"Batman?" both cops repeated at the same time. It was kind of cute, actually, in retrospect.
"Movie? The middle one was better," the male cop said.
"No, Batman was here. Tonight. He saved me." As I said it, I was aware of two things. The first was that the broken tooth in my mouth had a sharp edge that was digging into my tongue. The other was that I sounded absolutely crazy, and a lot like a little kid describing a dream.
I spit the broken tooth out into my hand. It took two tries and I apologized to the policewoman.
For a moment, I wondered if a doctor could sew the tooth back on, then I realized how insane that thought was, and wondered if I might have some kind of brain damage.
"Near as we can tell, sir," the policewoman said quietly, "You got mugged or attacked within the last two hours. It's possible someone hit you with their car."
"No," I said. "It was a bunch of kids. Muscular, mean ones. I mean, like teenagers, not, like, little kids."
"Your wallet's still here," the man said, holding it up for me to see it. "Still got twenty-seven dollars in it."
I reached out to take it, but felt that sharp pain in my stomach again. The sound I made was embarrassingly girlish.
"Lie still, sir," the policewoman said. "You may have broken ribs."
"You're good at your job," I said, for no reason. Then, because I wanted them to understand I hadn't lost my mind: "It might not have been Batman, you know."
"Oh. You think?" the black cop said. It hurt my feelings, but it would have been funny to anybody else.
"No. I mean, it was a guy dressed as Batman. I mean."
"And he saved you. Killed the bad guys?"
Actually, I didn't think Batman killed people. But I couldn't say that to this guy. If I did, he'd ask me where the bodies went. And ask me which Batman it was, the Adam West one or the Christian Bale version. "I don't know. I don't remember."
"Well, there wasn't anybody else here when we got here. No bodies. Although I did find a filling over here." The black cop smiled good-naturedly. "You got a gold tooth?"
Somewhere to the north, I could hear a siren. I couldn't remember if ambulances have different sirens than police cars at the time. I was confused and my head was filled with a combination of cotton and applesauce. Homestyle applesauce. With the chunks.
"About Batman . . ." I started to say.
The policewoman put her hand on my shoulder, and I shut my mouth. "Just relax. Lie still and don't strain yourself. It'll be alright."
"But--"
"Sometimes head trauma can cause funny tricks with the mind. One time this guy hit me with a beer bottle and I forgot my middle name for more than an hour."
"It's Consuelo," the black cop added. "In case you forget again."
"Thanks, Albert," she said. The siren was getting closer. I heard a crackling from the woman's walkie-talkie and a voice said something I couldn't understand, though I think I made out "three minutes" in there. She looked down on me again. She wasn't particularly attractive, but I was feeling all affectionate anyway. Grateful. Childlike. "You've had a bad experience and an injury, but I think you're gonna be alright. We'll get you to a hospital, patch you up, and you'll forget all about Batman."
"Especially the George Clooney one," the black cop said. "Whoo!"
"You think I imagined him?" I said, afraid to keep talking in case I called the policewoman 'Mom.'
"Probably," she said. "Doesn't matter. What's important is that you're going to be okay, sir." So, we were back to the sir again. Alright.
She was right. I had been out of my mind, seeing things that my stressed brain wanted to see. Silly, childish things that I had once believed in. There's no such thing as superheroes, and I'd learned that decades ago. There was no such thing as a lot of things. Sad, really. No Batmen, no straight politicians, no business that couldn't go under, no love that lasts forever. Really sad.
I lay there as still as I could, feeling little bunches of pain in my mouth, my stomach, my knee, and my head. The siren was very close now, and I suddenly had to go to the bathroom. Bad. I was lucky I hadn't already gone in my pants.
And maybe I had. Even more embarrassment. I moved my right hand to check my crotch, and felt something hard and metal beneath it. I grasped the object and brought it up to my face to get a look at it. It was a Batarang.
"Heh," I said.
The End
My new jacket
My uncle died in 1990. He left some of his possessions to my mother, some to his sister, and some to his little brother. Among them was a leather jacket (you know, the Fonzie kind), and I don't know if my Uncle John ever wore it or just boxed it up all those years ago. This week, my mom discovered the leather jacket in a box and called John up. He told my mom that because he couldn't fit into it anymore, I could have the jacket, if I wanted to be cool.
Well, of course one wants what has always eluded them, so I happily accepted the jacket. It fits me pretty well, even if it's way heavier than it looks. The only problem is, it has a smell to it. My guess is that it's the musty smell of being boxed up for twenty years in closets or basements, and though I tried to wear it around today, the smell ultimately stifled me. I had to take the jacket off.
I considered putting it in the dryer with a couple of those sheets that make clothes smell like virgins entering a nunnery, but I worried that a trip through the dryer might ruin the jacket. I thought I'd call Jeff up and ask his wife what would happen to leather in a dryer, since she's smart about things like that.
But then I started to think about a leather jacket from a dead man with some kind of curse on it, the smell is something only I can detect, and while it certainly does make me "cool," the smell gets stronger and stronger while my list of admirers and bedmates grows. What could it lead to? Madness? Murder? Suicide, only to be donated to Goodwill and fall into the hands of some other unwary size 42?
That's just how my mind works, really. Thoughts that my dead uncle might possess me, thoughts that I might know things I couldn't possibly know when I wear the jacket, thoughts that the smell isn't mildew at all . . . but evil. Anyway, I don't think I'll actually write up any of these ideas, but I thought I'd share them anyway, since I honestly don't know what to do about the leather jacket.
I am tempted, however, to make some kind of awful play on that old "take off your pants and jacket" joke to end here.
But I shan't.
Rish "Aaaaaayyy" Outfield
Well, of course one wants what has always eluded them, so I happily accepted the jacket. It fits me pretty well, even if it's way heavier than it looks. The only problem is, it has a smell to it. My guess is that it's the musty smell of being boxed up for twenty years in closets or basements, and though I tried to wear it around today, the smell ultimately stifled me. I had to take the jacket off.
I considered putting it in the dryer with a couple of those sheets that make clothes smell like virgins entering a nunnery, but I worried that a trip through the dryer might ruin the jacket. I thought I'd call Jeff up and ask his wife what would happen to leather in a dryer, since she's smart about things like that.
But then I started to think about a leather jacket from a dead man with some kind of curse on it, the smell is something only I can detect, and while it certainly does make me "cool," the smell gets stronger and stronger while my list of admirers and bedmates grows. What could it lead to? Madness? Murder? Suicide, only to be donated to Goodwill and fall into the hands of some other unwary size 42?
That's just how my mind works, really. Thoughts that my dead uncle might possess me, thoughts that I might know things I couldn't possibly know when I wear the jacket, thoughts that the smell isn't mildew at all . . . but evil. Anyway, I don't think I'll actually write up any of these ideas, but I thought I'd share them anyway, since I honestly don't know what to do about the leather jacket.
I am tempted, however, to make some kind of awful play on that old "take off your pants and jacket" joke to end here.
But I shan't.
Rish "Aaaaaayyy" Outfield
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Writing Resolution 6
Okay, I'm going to try another of those one hundred word stories again.
GRANDPA
Grandpa was such a gentle man, so decent that I'd always found him boring. He had no stories to tell, and kept to himself for thirty years after Grandma died. After he too passed away, it was up to my Mom and me to go through his house, deciding what things to keep, what things to sell, what things to throw out. It was Mom who found the door to the secret room, and all the human remains in shoeboxes along the wall, skulls of different sizes neatly lining the shelves. I guess maybe Grandpa wasn't so boring after all.
GRANDPA
Grandpa was such a gentle man, so decent that I'd always found him boring. He had no stories to tell, and kept to himself for thirty years after Grandma died. After he too passed away, it was up to my Mom and me to go through his house, deciding what things to keep, what things to sell, what things to throw out. It was Mom who found the door to the secret room, and all the human remains in shoeboxes along the wall, skulls of different sizes neatly lining the shelves. I guess maybe Grandpa wasn't so boring after all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)